Chapter 4

_Risposta._ There is a jewel which no Indian mines Can buy, no chymic art can counterfeit; It makes men rich in greatest poverty; Makes water wine, turns wooden cups to gold, The homely whistle to sweet music's strain: Seldom it come, to few from heaven sent, That much in little, all in nought,--Content.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE MAID.

I marriage would forswear, But that I hear men tell That she that dies a maid Must lead an ape in hell.

Therefore, if fortune come, I will not mock and play Nor drive the bargain on Till it be driven away.

Titles and lands I like, Yet rather fancy can A man that wanteth gold Than gold that wants a man.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE MARRIED MAN.

I only am the man Among all married men That do not wish the priest, To be unlinked again.

And though my shoe did wring I would not make my moan, Nor think my neighbours' chance More happy than mine own.

Yet court I not my wife, But yield observance due, Being neither fond nor cross, Nor jealous nor untrue.

From JOHN DOWLAND's _Second Book of Songs or Airs_, 1600.

I saw my Lady weep, And sorrow proud to be advanced so In those fair eyes where all perfections keep. Her face was full of woe, But such a woe (believe me) as wins more hearts Than Mirth can do with her enticing parts.

Sorrow was there made fair, And Passion wise; Tears a delightful thing; Silence beyond all speech, a wisdom rare; She made her sighs to sing, And all things with so sweet a sadness move As made my heart at once both grieve and love.

O fairer than aught else The world can show, leave off in time to grieve. Enough, enough; your joyful look excels; Tears kill the heart, believe. O strive not to be excellent in woe, Which only breeds your beauty's overthrow.

From JOHN WILBYE's _First Set of English Madrigals_, 1598.

I sung sometime my thoughts and fancy's pleasure, Where I did list, or time served best and leisure; While Daphne did invite me To supper once, and drank to me to spite me. I smiled, but yet did doubt her, And drank where she had drunk before, to flout her; But, O! while I did eye her, Mine eyes drank love, my lips drank burning fire.

From ORLANDO GIBBONS' _First Set of Madrigals_, 1612.

I weigh not Fortune's frown nor smile, I joy not much in earthly joys, I seek not state, I reak [_sic_] not style, I am not fond of Fancy's toys. I rest so pleased with what I have I wish no more, no more I crave.

I tremble not at noise of war, I quake not at the thunder's crack, I shrink not at a blazing star, I sound not at the news of wreck, I fear no loss, I hope no gain, I envy none, I none disdain.

I see Ambition never pleased, I see some Tantals starve in store, I see gold's dropsy seldom eased, I see each Midas gape for more: I neither want nor yet abound, Enough's a feast, content is crowned.

I feign not friendship where I hate, I fawn not on the great for grace, I prize, I praise a mean estate Ne yet too lofty, nor too base, This is all my choice, my cheer-- A mind content and conscience clear.

From THOMAS MORLEY's _Madrigals to Four Voices_, 1600.

I will no more come to thee That flout'st me when I woo thee; Still ty hy thou criest And all my lovely rings and pins denyest. O say, alas, what moves thee To grieve him so that loves thee? Leave, alas, then, ah leave tormenting And give my burning some relenting.

From ROBERT JONES' _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.

If fathers knew but how to leave Their children wit as they do wealth, And could constrain them to receive That physic which brings perfect health, The world would not admiring stand A woman's face and woman's hand.

Women confess they must obey, We men will needs be servants still; We kiss their hands, and what they say We must commend, be't ne'er so ill: Thus we, like fools, admiring stand Her pretty foot and pretty hand.

We blame their pride, which we increase By making mountains of a mouse; We praise because we know we please; Poor women are too credulous To think that we admiring stand Or foot, or face, or foolish hand.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.

If I urge my kind desires, She, unkind, doth them reject, Women's hearts are painted fires, To deceive them that affect. I alone love's fires include: She alone doth them delude.

She hath often vowed her love: But alas no fruit I find. That her fires are false I prove Yet, in her, no fault I find. I was thus unhappy born, And ordained to be her scorn.

Yet if human care or pain, May the heavenly order change; She will hate her own disdain, And repent she was so strange: For a truer heart than I, Never lived, nor loved to die.

From JOHN DOWLAND's _First Book of Songs and Airs_, 1597.

If my complaints could passions move, Or make Love see wherein I suffer wrong; My passions were enough to prove That my despairs had governed me too long. O Love, I live and die in thee! Thy wounds do freshly bleed in me.

Thy grief in my deep sighs still speaks, Yet thou dost hope when I despair; My heart for thy unkindness breaks; Thou say'st thou can'st my harms repair, And when I hope thou mak'st me hope in vain; Yet for redress thou let'st me still complain.

Can Love be rich, and yet I want? Is Love my judge, and yet am I condemned? Thou plenty hast, yet me dost scant; Thou made a god, and yet thy power contemned! That I do live, it is thy power; That I desire it is thy worth.

If love doth make men's lives too sour, Let me not love, nor live henceforth! Die shall my hopes, but not my faith, That you, that of my fall may hearers be, May hear Despair, which truly saith "I was more true to Love, than Love to me."

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

If thou long'st so much to learn, sweet boy, what 'tis to love, Do but fix thy thoughts on me and thou shalt quickly prove: Little suit at first shall win Way to thy abashed desire, But then will I hedge thee in, Salamander-like, with fire.

With thee dance I will, and sing, and thy fond dalliance bear; We the grovy hills will climb and play the wantons there; Other whiles we'll gather flowers, Lying dallying on the grass; And thus our delightful hours, Full of waking dreams, shall pass.

When thy joys were thus at height, my love should turn from thee, Old acquaintance then should grow as strange, as strange might be: Twenty rivals thou shouldst find, Breaking all their hearts for me, While to all I'll prove more kind And more forward than to thee.

Thus thy silly youth, enraged, would soon my love defy, But, alas, poor soul, too late! clipt wings can never fly. Those sweet hours which we had past, Called to thy mind, thy heart would burn; And couldst thou fly ne'er so fast, They would make thee straight return.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Sonnets and Songs_, 1588.

If women could be fair and never fond, Or that their beauty might continue still, I would not marvel though they made men bond By service long to purchase their goodwill: But when I see how frail these creatures are, I laugh that men forget themselves so far.

To mark what choice they make and how they change, How, leaving best, the worst they choose out still; And how, like haggards wild, about they range, And scorning reason follow after will![6] Who would not shake such buzzards from the fist And let them fly (fair fools!) which way they list?

Yet for our sport we fawn and flatter both, To pass the time when nothing else can please: And train them on to yield by subtle oath The sweet content that gives such humour ease: And then we say, when we their follies try, "To play with fools, O, what a fool was I!"

[6] So Oliphant.--Old ed., "Scorning after reason to follow will."

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Songs, and Sonnets_, 1611.

In crystal towers and turrets richly set With glitt'ring gems that shine against the sun, In regal rooms of jasper and of jet, Content of mind not always likes to won;[7] But oftentimes it pleaseth her to stay In simple cotes enclosed with walls of clay.

[7] Dwell.

From JOHN COPRARIO's _Funeral Tears, etc._, 1606.

In darkness let me dwell, the ground shall sorrow be, The roof despair to bar all cheerful light from me, The walls of marble black that moistened still shall weep, My music hellish jarring sounds to banish friendly sleep: Thus wedded to my woes, and bedded in my tomb O let me dying live till death doth come.

My dainties grief shall be, and tears my poisoned wine, My sighs the air through which my panting heart shall pine, My robes my mind shall suit exceeding blackest night, My study shall be tragic thoughts sad fancy to delight, Pale ghosts and frightful shades shall my acquaintance be: O thus, my hapless joy, I haste to thee.

From JOHN MUNDY's _Songs and Psalms_, 1594.

In midst of woods or pleasant grove, Where all sweet birds do sing, Methought I heard so rare a sound Which made the heavens to ring.

The charm was good, the noise full sweet, Each bird did play his part; And I admired to hear the same, Joy sprang into my heart.

The black bird made the sweetest sound, Whose tunes did far excel; Full pleasantly, and most profound Was all things placed well.

Thy pretty tunes, mine own sweet bird, Done with so good a grace, Extolls thy name, prefers the same Abroad in every place.

Thy music grave, bedecked well With sundry points of skill, Bewrays thy knowledge excellent Ingrafted in thy will.

My tongue shall speak, my pen shall write In praise of thee to tell; The sweetest bird that ever was, In friendly sort farewell.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Ballets and Madrigals_, 1598.

In pride of May The fields are gay, The birds do sweetly sing. Fa la la! So Nature would That all things should With joy begin the spring. Fa la la!

Then, Lady dear, Do you appear In beauty like the spring: Fa la la! I dare well say The birds that day More cheerfully will sing. Fa la la!

From ROBERT JONES's _Musical Dream_, 1609.

{Pheugein de ton Erota kenos ponos.}--_Archias_.

In Sherwood lived stout Robin Hood, An archer great, none greater, His bow and shafts were sure and good, Yet Cupid's were much better; Robin could shoot at many a hart and miss, Cupid at first could hit a heart of his. Hey, jolly Robin Hood, ho jolly Robin Hood, Love finds out me As well as thee, To follow me to the green-wood.

A noble thief was Robin Hood, Wise was he could deceive him; Yet Marian in his bravest mood Could of his heart bereave him: No greater thief lies hidden under skies, Than beauty closely lodged in women's eyes. Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

An outlaw was this Robin Hood, His life free and unruly, Yet to fair Marian bound he stood And love's debt paid her duly: Whom curb of strictest law could not hold in, Love[8] to obedience with a wink could win. Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

Now wend we home, stout Robin Hood, Leave we the woods behind us, Love-passions must not be withstood, Love everywhere will find us. I lived in field and town, and so did he; I got me to the woods, Love followed me. Hey, jolly Robin, &c.

[8] Old ed.,--"Love with obeyednes and a winke could winne."

From MICHAEL ESTE's _Madrigals of three, four and five parts_, 1604. (By Nicholas Breton. Originally published in 1591.)

In the merry month of May, On a morn by break of day, Forth I walk'd by the wood-side, Whereas May was in her pride: There I spyed all alone Phillida and Corydon. Much ado there was, God wot! He would love and she would not. She said, never man was true; He said, none was false to you. He said, he had loved her long; She said, Love should have no wrong. Corydon would kiss her then; She said, maids must kiss no men Till they did for good and all; Then she made the shepherd call All the heavens to witness truth Never lov'd a truer youth. Thus with many a pretty oath, Yea and nay, and faith and troth, Such as seely shepherds use When they will not love abuse, Love, which had been long deluded, Was with kisses sweet concluded; And Phillida with garlands gay Was made the Lady of the May.

From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604.

Inconstant Laura makes me death to crave, For wanting her I must embrace my grave; A little grave will ease my malady And set me free from love's fell tyranny. Intomb me then and show her where I lie, And say I died through her inconstancy.

From HENRY LICHFILD's _First Set of Madrigals_, 1613.

Injurious hours, whilst any joy doth bless me, With speedy wings you fly and so release me; But if some sorrow do oppress my heart, You creep as if you never meant to part.

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Songs of Sundry Natures_, 1589.

Is Love a boy,--what means he then to strike? Or is he blind,--why will he be a guide? Is he a man,--why doth he hurt his like? Is he a God,--why doth he men deride? No one of these, but one compact of all: A wilful boy, a man still dealing blows, Of purpose blind to lead men to their thrall, A god that rules unruly--God, he knows.

Boy, pity me that am a child again; Blind, be no more my guide to make me stray; Man, use thy might to force away my pain; God, do me good and lead me to my way; And if thou beest a power to me unknown, Power of my life, let here thy grace be shown.

From _Melismata_, 1611.

THE MARRIAGE OF THE FROG AND THE MOUSE.

It was the frog in the well, Humbledum, humbledum, And the merry mouse in the mill, Tweedle, tweedle, twino.

The frog would a wooing ride Sword and buckler by his side.

When he upon his high horse set, His boots they shone as black as jet.

When he came to the merry mill-pin,-- "Lady Mouse, been you within?"

Then came out the dusty mouse: "I am Lady of this house:

Hast thou any mind of me?" "I have e'en great mind of thee?"

"Who shall this marriage make?" "Our Lord which is the rat,"

"What shall we have to our supper?" "Three beans in a pound of butter?"

When supper they were at, The frog, the mouse, and e'en the rat;

Then came in Gib our cat, And catched the mouse e'en by the back.

Then did they separate, And the frog leaped on the floor so flat.

Then came in Dick our drake, And drew the frog e'en to the lake.

The rat run up the wall, Humbledum, humbledum; A goodly company, the Devil go with all! Tweedle tweedle twino.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Jack and Joan, they think no ill, But loving live, and merry still; Do their week-days' work, and pray Devoutly on the holy day: Skip and trip it on the green, And help to choose the Summer Queen; Lash out at a country feast Their silver penny with the best.

Well can they judge of nappy ale, And tell at large a winter tale; Climb up to the apple loft, And turn the crabs till they be soft. Tib is all the father's joy, And little Tom the mother's boy. All their pleasure is Content; And Care, to pay their yearly rent.

Joan can call by name her cows And deck her windows with green boughs; She can wreaths and tutties[9] make, And trim with plums a bridal cake. Jack knows what brings gain or loss; And his long flail can stoutly toss: Makes the hedge which others break, And ever thinks what he doth speak.

Now, you courtly dames and knights, That study only strange delights; Though you scorn the homespun gray And revel in your rich array; Though your tongues dissemble deep, And can your heads from danger keep; Yet, for all your pomp and train, Securer lives the silly swain.

[9] Nosegays.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Third Book of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Kind are her answers, But her performance keeps no day; Breaks time, as dancers, From their own music when they stray. All her free favours and smooth words Wing my hopes in vain. O, did ever voice so sweet but only feign? Can true love yield such delay, Converting joy to pain?

Lost is our freedom When we submit to women so: Why do we need 'em When, in their best, they work our woe? There is no wisdom Can alter ends by Fate prefixt. O, why is the good of man with evil mixt? Never were days yet called two But one night went betwixt.

From CAMPION and ROSSETER's _Book of Airs_, 1601.

Kind in unkindness, when will you relent And cease with faint love true love to torment? Still entertained, excluded still I stand; Her glove still hold, but cannot touch the hand.

In her fair hand my hopes and comforts rest: O might my fortunes with that hand be blest! No envious breaths then my deserts could shake, For they are good whom such true love doth make.

O let not beauty so forget her birth That it should fruitless home return to earth! Love is the fruit of beauty, then love one! Not your sweet self, for such self-love is none.

Love one that only lives in loving you; Whose wronged deserts would you with pity view, This strange distaste which your affection sways Would relish love, and you find better days.

Thus till my happy sight your beauty views, Whose sweet remembrance still my hope renews, Let these poor lines solicit love for me, And place my joys where my desires would be.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Five and Six Parts_, 1600.

Lady, the birds right fairly Are singing ever early; The lark, the thrush, the nightingale, The make-sport cuckoo and the quail. These sing of Love! then why sleep ye? To love your sleep it may not be.

From THOMAS GREAVES' _Songs of Sundry Kinds_, 1604.

Lady, the melting crystal of your eye Like frozen drops upon your cheeks did lie; Mine eye was dancing on them with delight, And saw love's flames within them burning bright, Which did mine eye entice To play with burning ice; But O, my heart thus sporting with desire, My careless eye did set my heart on fire.

O that a drop from such a sweet fount flying Should flame like fire and leave my heart a-dying! I burn, my tears can never drench it Till in your eyes I bathe my heart and quench it: But there, alas, love with his fire lies sleeping, And all conspire to burn my heart with weeping.

From JOHN WILBYE's _Madrigals_, 1598.

Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting, Which clad in damask mantles deck the arbours, And then behold your lips where sweet love harbours, My eyes present me with a double doubting: For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes Whether the roses be your lips or your lips [be] the roses.

From J. DANYEL's _Songs for the Lute, Viol and Voice_, 1606.

Let not Chloris think, because She hath unvassel'd me, That her beauty can give laws To others that are free: I was made to be the prey And booty of her eyes! In my bosom, she may say. Her greatest kingdom lies.

Though others may her brow adore, Yet more must I that therein see far more Than any other's eyes have power to see; She is to me More than to any others she can be. I can discern more secret notes That in the margin of her cheeks Love quotes Than any else besides have art to read; No looks proceed From those fair eyes but to me wonder breed.

O then why Should she fly From him to whom her sight Doth add so much above her might? Why should not she Still joy to reign in me?

From WILLIAM BYRD's _Psalms, Songs and Sonnets_, 1611.

Let not the sluggish sleep Close up thy waking eye, Until with judgment deep Thy daily deeds thou try: He that one sin in conscience keeps When he to quiet goes, More vent'rous is than he that sleeps With twenty mortal foes.

From GEORGE MASON's and JOHN EARSDEN's _Airs that were sung and played at Brougham Castle in Westmoreland in the King's Entertainment given by the Earl of Cumberland_, 1618.

Let us in a lovers' round Circle all this hallowed ground; Softly, softly trip and go, The light-foot Fairies jet it so. Forward then, and back again, Here and there and everywhere, Winding to and fro, Skipping high and louting low; And, like lovers, hand in hand, March around and make a stand.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals of Six Parts_, 1600.

Like two proud armies marching in the field,-- Joining a thund'ring fight, each scorns to yield,-- So in my heart your beauty and my reason: One claims the crown, the other says 'tis treason. But oh! your beauty shineth as the sun; And dazzled reason yields as quite undone.

From THOMAS WEELKES' _Madrigals to Three, Four, Five and Six Voices_, 1597.

Lo! country sport that seldom fades; A garland of the spring, A prize for dancing, country maids With merry pipes we bring. Then all at once _for our town_ cries! Pipe on, for we will have the prize.

From THOMAS CAMPION's _Two Books of Airs_ (circ. 1613).

Lo, when back mine eye Pilgrim-like I cast, What fearful ways I spie Which, blinded, I securely passed!

But now heaven hath drawn From my brows that night; As when the day doth dawn, So clears my long-imprisoned sight.

Straight the Caves of Hell Dressed with flowers I see, Wherein False Pleasures dwell, That, winning most, most deadly be.

Throngs of masked fiends, Winged like angels, fly; Even in the gates of friends, In fair disguise black dangers lie.

Straight to heaven I raised My restored sight, And with loud voice I praised The LORD of ever-during light.

And since I had strayed From His ways so wide, His grace I humbly prayed Henceforth to be my guard and guide.

From JOHN MAYNARD's _Twelve Wonders of the World_, 1611.

THE COURTIER.

Long have I lived in Court, Yet learned not all this while To sell poor suiters smoke, Nor where I hate to smile; Superiors to adore, Inferiors to despise, To flie from such as fall, To follow such as rise:

To cloak a poor desire Under a rich array, Nor to aspire by Vice, Though 'twere the quicker way.

From ROBERT JONES' _Second Book of Songs and Airs_, 1601.

Love is a bable, No man is able To say 'tis this or 'tis that; So full of passions Of sundry fashions, 'Tis like I cannot tell what.

Love's fair in the cradle, Foul in the fable, 'Tis either too cold or too hot; An arrant liar, Fed by desire, It is and yet it is not.